


Children of Dionysus -- StarShine (part 2)

by meretriciousanddelicious



Series: Children of Dionysus [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "You idiot" is actually an endearment, "my mind and soul and heart are here.", "one time you sobbed yourself awake", Bitemarks, Biting, Blue Balls, Bruising, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Job, Hickeys, John's got a great imagination, Love Bites, Lubricant, M/M, Mating, Ownership, PTSD Sherlock, Post Traumatic Stress, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Play, Scars, Triggers, Turnabout is Foreplay, a hand job using the digits of pi, cheating on his work every day of the week, clawmarks, dominance play, erotic blush, growls, kindness and cruelty, mercenary kisses, pleasure and pain, watching him sleep, you spit on your hand like an ANIMAL?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:50:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meretriciousanddelicious/pseuds/meretriciousanddelicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>POSSIBLE SERIES SPOILERS. Part 2 happens perhaps 30-45 minutes later, same night. Sherlock is a big cat; is John his prey or his mate?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children of Dionysus -- StarShine (part 2)

**Author's Note:**

> Personal head-canon: Sherlock has eidetic memory. Although he has *alluded* to intentionally forgetting information he is not actually capable of doing so. He only has full control over what memory he accesses while awake... mostly.

John Watson woke again to the feel of someone nuzzling him and kissing him gently.

"Wake up -- I have questions."

"Just so you know," replied Watson, "this is a much more pleasant way of disturbing my rest. How long was I out?"

"Not long. I felt like you needed a nap. And I needed to think."

Without my distractions, Watson sleepily translated. With a dash of "I wanted to watch you sleep", perhaps?

Sherlock sat back in the covers, still quite naked but now completely unconcerned by it. The light beyond the curtain had shifted unnoticed during their interlude, to shine a wider beam across the bed. He could see Holmes entirely now: curls a bit more tousled than usual, cat-like blue-green eyes sparkling and inquisitive, intent on him. Posture proud and brave again. The lean tight muscles of his shoulders and arms; his long abdomen leading down into the shadows that were still a mystery. Altogether a creature of force and passion and action. Some mad erotic god...

"The first three hours of night were almost spent," murmured John, raising himself up on an elbow to devour him with his gaze.

"The time that every star shines down on us,  
when Love appeared to me so suddenly  
That I still shudder at the memory..."

Sherlock's jaw dropped, ever so slightly. Did I really just discombobulate Sherlock Holmes twice in one night? John wondered. Mark your calendars, gents -- it may never come around again!

"You are a man of unexpected depths, Watson."

"Not to you, Sherlock."

The man shook his mane firmly in negation.

"More than you'd believe. Especially to me."

Watson sat up in the bed, arranging a pillow behind him. "What did you want to ask me, Sherlock?"

The other man toyed with a corner of the sheet, suddenly self-conscious. "How did you know that... that something had happened to me?"

We've gone from "what makes you think?" to "how did you know?" in the space of my nap, did we? An encouraging development.

"I've treated men who had post-traumatic stress before. They can spend most of their day seeming almost okay... and then any word or event that reminds them of what happened to them, they seize up much like you did. It seemed like it helped to talk them down slowly; to remind them of where they are and who they were with and what was actually happening.

"I've never *treated* shell-shock or battle fatigue; it isn't my area of training. But the soldiers I saw, many of them had developed it due to the circumstances that got them the wounds I was treating. You couldn't try to heal one without dealing with the other.

"You've already told me you can't forget. Every memory since birth, you said. Even the ones you'd rather not have."

"Is that all?" Holmes asked calmly.

"Not hardly. You say you've heard me sometimes at night with those girls? Well, I've heard you too. Pacing. Muttering. When you finally *do* sleep sometimes you wind up screaming yourself awake. One time you sobbed yourself awake.

"And the stimulants and the music at all hours. The way you'll run yourself like a hunted beast until you just fall over unconscious. As if there's something you can't escape in anything less than total blackout. Seems like most men start drinking at that point."

"I've tried," he answered softly. "It got worse."

"And Sherlock Holmes is not the type of man that will seek therapy."

Sherlock gave him a long stare that he translated as "I refused to trust anyone to be that vulnerable with them," with overtones of "they wouldn't want to help me... they'd want to *study* me."

"You heard me?" Holmes said instead.

"My room's upstairs, right over yours."

"Why didn't you ever come down?"

"Why didn't you ever come up?"

Sherlock bit his lip and looked away.

"I worried that if I came down, tried to talk to you, tried to help you -- you'd tell me to go to hell. People can be strange, about the wounds inside them. Private."

Holmes flipped the blanket up over his shoulders as if to shield himself from the darkness. "What made you dare tonight?"

"When you fell that day... I learned there were worse hells. Worse than having you mad at me was knowing you would never ever hear what I needed to say to you. I never got the courage to even try. And that failure would eat at me every day of my life."

He leaned over and took Holmes's unresisting hand in his.

"Promise me... no matter what happens after tonight. Whether or not we keep on like this. Promise me that whenever you wake up screaming, you'll come get me."

"If you promise me," Sherlock answered, "that if you hear me wake up crying, you'll come down and hold me."

"I promise you that. But no tears now?"

"No, of course not," Holmes scoffed. John was careful to concentrate on tracing the veins on the back of his lover's hand, to give him a moment to wipe his eyes with the other.

"Shall we get back to the kissing? You've gotten quite good at it," said John slyly, when the coast was clear.

"I had more questions."

"Kiss me and I'll answer."

"How mercenary of you..."

He slithered out of his blankets and reached for him, cupping John's face in his fine long fingers to bring him close and simply breathe him in for a moment. His cat-eyes examined his every detail so minutely, trying to memorize him all over again. Then he was closer still, almost nose to nose, his gaze penetrating John, piercing him to the core. His pupils were dilating and contracting almost in a rhythm. Sherlock shut his eyes, as if in ecstasy -- Watson groaned.

Then Sherlock brushed his lips across John's and released him.

"There. Done."

Watson, shaking now with rage, laughter, and lust in equal portions, replied "Now *there's* the infuriating prick I've come to know," between his clenched teeth.

"And love?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows raised.

"Get over here and find out."

"That sounds like a threat," Sherlock purred, stalking him across the mattress, his face pulling into feral lines.

"Not a threat but a promise --" John said even as he pressed back against the wall, aroused and afraid all at once. Sherlock was crawling over his legs now, pinning him down.

"Then why are you scared? Maybe because you know I have you trapped."

Closer now, kneeling over his hips, so close Watson had to bend his neck back to look up at him. Sherlock took his wrists in his hands and pressed each one to the wall alongside his shoulders.

"Mine..." he growled.

"Christ!" John squeaked.

Leisurely Sherlock bent and ran his lips down the flexed tendons of John's neck.

"Not good enough," Holmes said abruptly, turning away and releasing him. "Stretch out on the mattress."

Puzzled (and more scared than ever), Watson complied. Sherlock watched him critically, nudging him so that he lay flat on his back, even sliding one of the thinner pillows on the bed under his neck.

Once everything was arranged to his strict standards, Sherlock straddled him again, moving his wrists up to hold them down by his head, duplicating the position he’d had against the wall.

"Perfect," Sherlock murmured. "Now I can be sure that you won't get a cramp in your neck and every part of you is accessible at my comfort. You're even more trapped than before. And I got you to do it to yourself."

John laughed. “You could have just asked, love.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Still afraid to request what he desires, Watson noted. Using his power over me to command me; the idea of asking out of love and actually receiving what he needs is still so new he doesn’t trust it.

“You are a lion,” Watson said instead.

“Hmm?” The puzzlement in the blazing blue-green eyes was real.

“You look like one, I mean. I’ve always thought so.” He gestured with his chin, unable to move anything else. “The tilt of your eyes, and how your cheekbones are so high and wide. The length of your face, and the curve of your lips, and that mane of hair… The way you move when you’re on a case. Like you’re stalking game. In this position I quite feel like your prey.”

“In *this* position?”

“Well, yes; if I were flipped over I’d be –“ John choked up suddenly at the image that burst into being in his mind. He could see himself as clearly as if in a mirror or photograph, entirely third party… belly down in Sherlock’s bed at 221B Baker. His back was arched, his face full of ecstasy so acute it bordered agony. Sherlock was straddled atop him, the muscled curves of John’s buttocks tight against his groin, the lines of his thighs taut on either side. Sherlock’s long hands had him pinned in this image as well, at their extended reach to either side; the man himself was bent close over him and his teeth were fastened in the curve of muscle where John’s neck met his shoulder. His eyes were only a green glint under his hair. The image was so complete John could see the red scratches on his own ass and lower back. *Sherlock’s marks!*

Sherlock’s eyes over him now were wide with shock; two hectic spots of color high on his cheekbones. “Oh, John,” he whispered as if he could read just as clearly what was in Watson’s head at the moment, “such strange ideas you give me.”  
John writhed, out of lust as much as chagrin.

“Are you… is this John Watson actually being *embarrassed?*”

“Please let’s not talk about it just now...” he begged. At least not until I figure out why I would suddenly find the idea of being held down and penetrated so incredibly erotic...

“Do you know that your blush goes all the way down your throat?” Lips quirked smugly, Sherlock kissed his flushed face, his panting mouth, the tip of his chin, and down his sensitive neck. John arched up to his touch, desperate for more.

“I’m kissing you now... will you answer my questions?” said Holmes, his tongue flicking the hollow between Watson’s collarbones.

“I won’t have breath to answer!”

Holmes laughed and released his hands. John used his freedom to pull that long body closer, to run his fingers through those soft curls.

“Okay,” he said once he’d regained some composure. “What do you need to know?”

“How did you know... what to do to me?”

“When?”

“All of it. All the things you did. To bring me to orgasm. Had you ever...?” he trailed off delicately.

“Been with another man? No. I’m fairly sure that Sherlock Holmes will be the first, last, and only man that I fancy like this.”

“Why?”

“Never really thought about it. I always liked girls. Sherlock is the exception that proves the rule.”

“A test case. A subset of one.”

“Special, I would have said.”

John sighed, feeling oddly complete.

“If you had seemed a bit more... experienced, I would have asked you what you liked or had you show me.”

“I’ve never seen the point of it.”

Of learning what pleases your body? John asked silently. Of touching yourself with compassion? Of showing yourself some tenderness and patience, in any form?

“I actually had it a bit easier tonight,” he continued instead. “Girls have different bodies, of course. There’s a learning curve when it comes to being with them, and huge amounts of variation in their tastes. You and I are both male. I figured I’d just try some of the things *I* like and see if you did, too.”

“So – you were just doing to me the things that would make you come?”

“In the absence of other information, yes.”

Interesting... he was jealous at the thought of other men, but dismisses the women as unimportant. He’s relieved that I was using mimicry on him and not deduction as it means his sensuality isn’t written out somewhere plain for every enemy to read. There’s more... confirmation that his needs and preferences aren’t so radically alien. The things we hold in common are so important to him.

“So...” Holmes breathed, “if I did the same things to you, you would potentially orgasm?”

Watson was instantly reminded of the painfully hard erection he had taken great care to ignore all night. Having waxed and waned with their conversation, it still never seemed to recede entirely.

“Potentially,” John replied distantly. “I’d say one hundred percent potential.”

“Oh.” He exhaled slowly. “Well, time is passing; I’d best get to it.”

“Wait!” John held him away a bit to look at him properly, searching his eyes. “Holmes, what I did was a gift… I expected nothing in return. You don’t owe me anything at all. I don’t do things that way.”

Sherlock smiled at him, at his concern; a smile so achingly tender it almost stopped John’s heart.

“You idiot.” In his mouth now it was the closest endearment. He kissed him, slow and intimate. “All I meant was that the night is finite. If I intend to try much of which I’m curious, I need to begin.”

“Heaven help me,” John managed, “if I’m to be the subject of Sherlock’s curiosity!”

But Holmes was already moving under the sheet with him, parting his thighs effortlessly. He pressed their bodies together without trace of modesty; met at chest and lip, belly and hip. For a glorious moment John could feel their shafts side by side burning into his flesh, but then his lover was inching downward. He felt Sherlock’s lips in the hollow of his right collarbone – where he began to suck hard, bringing the blood to the surface, even pressing the skin between his teeth. John hissed a bit at the pain; Sherlock’s thumb found his nipple and the friction distracted him a while...

“There,” said Holmes presently, examining his handiwork. “Wear a collared shirt until that fades, and if ever you begin to think this was a dream, look at it again.”

“A new war wound?” he said, feeling faint. The love bite was tender under his exploration. “I knew loving you was dangerous.”

“That’s why you do it... and you wouldn’t have it otherwise.”

Sherlock was lifting him in his arms, nuzzling down and licking his nipples, first one then the other. John shivered.

“Do you like this?”

“A little harder,” he gasped, then groaned when the young man applied the pressure with his lips and tongue, rubbing the other under his thumb.

John’s hips were moving restlessly – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so helpless to his own arousal. He moved his legs up to cling to Sherlock’s thighs, holding their bodies together.

“Christ, what you do to me,” he managed. “I’m going to expire before you do half your experimenting.”

Holmes paused. “Is it not good?”

“I wouldn’t say that... just that the novelty of all this… I’m more wound up than I’d thought. You may not get your money’s worth tonight.”

Sherlock released him and sat back, suddenly thoughtful. “You’re right. I think I’m chasing the wrong goal at the moment. Let’s do something else.”

He crossed his legs in almost a yoga pose and reached for Watson’s hips, sliding him with remarkably little effort into his lap. He helped him into a sitting position, wrapping John’s legs tightly around his waist until they were clasped together, eye to eye.

So strong when he wants to be, thought John, and felt faint all over again.

“Talk to me about *this*,” commanded Sherlock, laying one fingertip on the silvery-white circular scar far to the left on Watson’s upper chest.

John breathed deep; inhale, exhale. “Not much to tell,” he said, his gaze on Sherlock’s lips.

“I took a stray bullet during a fairly routine maneuver. Luckily it hit me high; missed my lung by a centimeter, cracked my shoulder blade and lodged there. They had to open me up to get it out.”

“So I see,” Sherlock murmured, tracing the crescent-shaped surgical scar on his back.

“It’s fine now, though.”

“Not when it gets wet or cold out. I’ve seen flinch when you try to move it after the pressure has dropped overnight.”

“I was lucky; it could have been far worse.”

“Let’s remember to get you a heating pad for it; if I apply heat and help you stretch it while you have your coffee of a morning we’ll put it right sooner.”

“It’s nothing, Holmes. I deal with it fine.”

“It matters to me. Who doctors the doctor?”

“I didn’t think it was noticeable.”

“I notice things, John. I’ve got no other choice.” Sherlock touched his face to make him look up, meet his gaze. “You’re brave. So much. I sometimes wonder if you’ll ever tire of being brave... and I rely on you. More than I ever dreamed I could of anyone. Whatever bravery I can spare you from needlessly expending – it is best for me to do so.”

“Why is it that you can be so comfortable with touching my body, now?”

“When I’m still so nervy about my own, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Holmes gave him a measuring look.

*killed for me, with his own hands, without a second thought. was prepared to die to save me, practically flung his life down at my feet. refused to believe the worst of me. gets his hackles up every time anyone slanders me. puts up with me. translates for me. understands me. treasures me. protects me. loves me.*

His brain helpfully underlined the last two words. Twice. Then wrote:

*nine-hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide  
the shame or mocking or laughter  
but the thousandth man will stand by your side  
to the gallows-foot – and after!*

Far more rare than that, Kip, he thought – and more precious than rubies.

“Because it is yours,” he answered at last. “I need to apologize to you.”

“I think you’re reaching a record number tonight.”

“I was selfish earlier, because I was scared.”

“No, you weren’t. It was perfectly okay.”

“Nonetheless, holding back – it must have hurt. I don’t know much about this sort of experience, but restraining any biological urge causes discomfort.”

“You needed it; I was glad to.”

“I don’t need it anymore,” Sherlock answered, and curled his hand around John’s cock.

The gasp of mingled surprise and pleasure that his lover produced satisfied Holmes immensely.

“Whose hand is this?” Sherlock asked mischievously. “What is it doing to you, John?”

John was clinging to him now, head resting against Sherlock’s neck. He tried, and failed, to speak.

Sherlock took a moment, exploring. Not sure why he exclaimed so much about *me*; I may have a centimeter or two on him in length but he’s got me beat in girth. Is that important? Perhaps there’s some sort of preferable ratio. In general classic beauty standards he wins hands down – I’m far too tall and angular to meet the ideal.

He has no secondary body hair, how interesting. There was a bit of dried shave gel behind his armpit and here at the crease of his thigh; he must shave it off. I’ll have to ask him why, someday – if it is a hygiene, aesthetic, comfort, or perspective choice. And wouldn’t it be a bit disconcerting to do? Not sure I could manage to wield a razor around *my* gonads...

“John... your skin?”

“Hmm?”

“Your skin, on the shaft, is tight. Different than mine.”

He dragged the shattered pieces of his brain back together. “Yes love, the parts aren’t entirely standard.”

“I’m concerned that I’ll cause you pain if I move my grip, like you did on me.

Watson exhaled raggedly. “I can’t jack off dry for just that reason. Usually I just spit on my hand.”

“You *SPIT* on your *HAND*?”

“I didn’t expect to *shag* anyone tonight, *SHERLOCK*, so pardon me if my nightstand is perhaps a tad bit under-stocked.”

“Wait just one moment.” He slid Watson off his lap and leaned over the side of the bed to rummage in his jacket. Snatches of low-muttered and affronted monologue floated up to John’s ear: “spit on our hands... like savages... the very idea...”

He popped back up again with a small bottle.

“What in God’s name is that?!”

He turned the bottle for John to peer at the label.

“Olive oil? Sherlock... why the hell were you carrying around a bottle of olive oil?”

“To grease the window so it wouldn't squeak.” He poured a generous pool into his cupped hand and worked it over his fingers as John crawled back into his lap.

“I’m going to smell like a Greek salad,” John said sourly... then moaned.

“No wonder I want to eat you up,” breathed Sherlock in his ear.

Okay quick, riddle me this, body: How long has it been? Last girl was at least three months ago – the dental hygienist with the irritating laugh. Of course nothing since... that day... been so miserable I just wanted left alone. Had a wank a week or so ago, perhaps; couldn’t get to sleep any other way that night.

So here I am, in the hands of the person I love most in this world, during what is *at one and the same time* the sexiest and most nerve-wracking evening of my life, having held back for hours at this point. I’m keyed to a fever pitch, with a case of blue-balls the likes of which I never knew possible.

If I can’t manage to come after all this, I’m just going to have a giant aneurism instead. The top of my head will blow clean off. At least it will hurt less, and the quiet will be nice and soothing. Maybe there’s a cold pack in the icebox...

“Stop thinking,” said Sherlock. “I can hear you. Stay with me. Hold on to me.” His slick hands were maintaining an easy pace; left, right, left, right, one after another up the shaft.

Tonight, this. Yes. To give him relief... release. He’s been so good to me. But there *will* be another time. Yes, and more. To give him all the attention and care he deserves. To take him into my mouth in turn. To experience every part of him. To do all the things I don’t even have words for yet.

Someday to do that thing he was thinking about. To mate like lions.

A shiver of lust rippled through him and he let it.

And soon I’ll be cheating on my work every day of the week and twice on Saturdays and I’m not sure I care either. With his help I could have several minutes – perhaps whole hours – of not thinking or remembering or deducing but of simply *being*. Being happy, being with him, wherever we are.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, snapping him back to the present. “You can stop.”

His hands froze. “But why?”

“I’m not sure I’m getting anywhere... I may just have waited a bit too long. It’s not your fault.”

“You don’t like it? Am I doing something wrong?” The hurt in his voice was palpable. John hurried to soothe it.

“I love it, Sherlock, I do. It feels incredible, to know it’s *you* doing it to me. It’s just that once I’ve held it for a while it can be very difficult to let go. I don’t want you to waste your time, is all.”

Sherlock smiled hesitantly and held him closer, leaving an olive-oil handprint across the small of his back.

“It’s not a waste. I’m liking this. I’m liking touching you. I could easily do it all night. If it doesn’t bother you, can I keep going?”

“Sure, love... if you want.”

“Rest on me. I have you. I just want you to feel pleasure.”

He seemed as solid as a rock when John wrapped his arms around his shoulders, laying his forehead in the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, his weight entirely in the cradle of his thighs. After a moment’s contemplation his lover’s hand was moving again – but different now. Completely without rhythm, each stroke unlike the one before it, sometimes focusing on the head, sometimes more on the root of the shaft.

“Match your breathing with mine...”

There was the beat of the drum... following Sherlock’s direction, inhaling the same air together. Utterly supported in Sherlock’s cradling arm, the sensations created by the other hand each arriving separate and unexpected.

Slowly John began to relax. The heavy ache in his groin eased a fraction at a time, although he was no less hard. With his head completely empty of thought the gentle motion seemed to go on for hours, never a sequence repeated. Ages later, the knot in his midsection that seemed to hold everything back finally collapsed in one slow majestic movement, like watching a building tumble...

The inside of his thighs and the small of his back were all tingling so hard it felt like hives covered his flesh.

“Sherlock, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna...”

“Let it happen. Let it out.” The hand never stopped.

“Sherlock... ahhh, Sherlock!”

He gasped in harmony with the man in his arms, finding that instinctive moment of no return and switching back to firm up and down strokes that caught John’s orgasm and gave it nowhere to flee. John quivered all over, pressing his moan into Sherlock’s neck, riding each spasm like driftwood caught in a savage tide. Only his lover’s arm kept him upright.

Sherlock shut his eyes – a flash of white.

“Oh god,” Watson groaned, panting. “I’ve never... like that. Never been able to finish... after I hit that point. Christ...”

Sherlock shushed him gently, then leaned forward and laid him out on the bed. He freed his hand and licked it thoughtfully. John caught him at it and growled low in his chest.

Sherlock held his gaze and did it again, one long slow lick from palm to fingertips, thrilled to see John grimace and tremble and his cock twitch again.

“I think I dropped a towel over here after my shower,” he managed after a moment, his voice weak.

“Your indifferent housekeeping saves us again.” Sherlock scooped it from the floor and wiped his hands, then looked down, startled.

“What is it?” asked John, sensing his lover’s dismay.

“I think... I came too.” True, there was the evidence across his own abdomen.

“I don’t understand. No one even touched it.”

Watson curled on his side facing him, petting his knee comfortingly. “That doesn’t matter, sometimes. The biggest sex organ a man or woman has is their brain. It’s what makes all the rest of it happen. And with a mind like yours, I’m not surprised that it brought your body along with us.”

Another quiet moment of cleaning for both of them with opposite ends of the towel (and John wondering if he’d ever get all the oil out of the linens); then Sherlock snuggled back in bed with him.

From mind-bending despair to soul-raising ecstasy in less than one night, Watson thought wearily. No wonder I feel like I’ve been hit by a lorry. Sherlock cradled him against his chest.

“You’re tired, John. I’ve done you few favors tonight... well, maybe that last... but you’re worn ragged.”

“I don’t want to sleep, I’ll miss you.”

“I’m right here, always.”

He fought it silently, but Sherlock’s clever fingers in his hair and his lips on his forehead drove away his resistance.

John Watson woke again, this time in sheer panic. The room seemed as bright as midday and the bed was empty except for him. Then he saw Sherlock turning away from the window, fully dressed.

“Your clothes are on. Why are your clothes on? And you’re standing on the floor.”

“Yes.” There was a terrible calm sadness in Sherlock’s eyes. “John... that’s false dawn out the window, and there’s things out in the world right now that only I can take care of, things that must be done for us to be safe. If I’m to get away unseen, it has to be soon.”

Overwrought, Watson burst into tears like a child. A quick and quiet tread over the carpet and then a rush of arms around him, the scent of warm tweed and linen, the undertones beneath of clean sweat and sex and just a trace of gunpowder and olive oil. Kisses then, over his weeping eyes, both the corners and then the center of his lips.

“You promised!” he whispered stridently, hating himself for causing this scene.

“I’m not leaving you, John. Not in any way that really matters. I can’t leave you. Not ever again.” Sherlock leaned his forehead against his lover’s; their tears mingled on his cheeks. “It’s just my body that’s going. My mind and soul and heart are here.”

John nodded and gulped.

“Can you be brave for me, one more time?”

“If you need it...”

Sherlock wiped John’s eyes, then breathed gently on them until they opened. With a perfectly sweet smile (despite his own red-rimmed gaze), he lifted John’s hand, folded it, and put the thumb pad directly on top of the love bite on his collarbone. It shot an ache that centered him.

“Before that has time to fade, I will come back to you. I swear it.”

One last tender kiss and then he was sliding out of the bed, beyond the reach of John’s empty hands.

“Sherlock! I didn’t get to mark *you*, though!”

Holmes’s fingers paused on the window sill. “Oh yes you did,” he corrected solemnly. “So deeply I’ll never be without it, ever again.”

The window opened soundlessly. A flick of tweed hem; a wave of fringe. Then the room seemed to sigh, and he was gone.

He takes all the life with him when he goes, thought Watson.

He collapsed back on the pillow, feeling entirely hollow.

Postmortem, Doctor Watson. Pursue this logically. What happened this evening?

He shut his eyes.

Sherlock Holmes rose out of his grave as a beautiful angel and put me through heaven and hell before slipping out of my grasp again. That’s all.

He sighed, grinding the last of his tears off his cheeks with his palms.

Without thinking, without even looking, he touched the love bite again and winced.

That’s going to be life while you love him, in a nutshell. Pleasure and pain. A chess game. A wrestling match. A verbal duel, a vicious dance. Kindness and cruelty hopelessly interlaced – a high-functioning sociopath with emotional damage and a beautiful face. You’ll have to fight him every day, every second, to win the right to care about him. You’ll have to fight him for himself.

And he’ll put scars on you, whether he means to or not.

John touched the silver-white hole in the other side of his chest. The day would shape up fairly warm and sunny... much later when he finally got up.

He’s right. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

He reached out for the other pillow, the one that still smelled of his lover, hugged it close and drifted back off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote John references is from La Vita Nuova by Dante Alighieri; he's speaking of Sherlock appearing suddenly (as the personification of Love) and leaving out the part about the girl, although the heart-eating could still apply. It's unsure if Sherlock recognizes the source, but he does feel the romantic nature of the quote and is strangely flattered by it.
> 
> In thinking of all that Watson does and is to him, Sherlock's brain references Rudyard Kipling's "Thousandth Man", and again a Bible quote (Proverbs 3:15, referring to a "virtuous woman").


End file.
